An acquaintance of mine has both:
a) a common name, and
b) an old gmail account, so he actually got to used his first initial and last name as his address, unlike the rest of us who had to append random characters to ours until it took. Stupid early adopters.
Anyway, as a result of this, he gets misdirected emails on a fairly regular basis, intended for someone with the same name or a similar name. Usually, he just clicks "delete," but this one was too good not to respond to. The regular text is the original email, I wrote the italicized text. I'm not sure at what point, if any, she picked up on the fact that it wasn't her significant other responding, and the irony of her actions may escape her entirely.
I’ve put my responses in italics below. Thanks for listening.
Look Tim, we have a lot to sort out between the two of us to make things work. I see them all as seperate issues but they probably wouldn't be issues at all if we both learned to communicate effectively and worked together on them. Granted mostly I know I need to learn to communicate better, but I'm sure we both could work on this area. I feel that it's really how each of us handles the information recieved from each other that seems to be the problem, if we could somehow work on that then maybe we would feel more comfortable about sharing how we feel about things. So, overall I know we both need to work on communicating and working together and if we could somehow pull that off than all the other issues we have probably would be solved or at least managable.
I completely agree. Communication is the cornerstone of any relationship. I can understand just how important the details are – it’s so easy to send the wrong message, or even inadvertently send the wrong message by not saying anything. Even things as basic as misspelling and poor grammar can undermine a message. Sometimes, it’s even as if we’re talking to a totally different person than we thought we were.
#1 being the budget and our financial situation: so, I'm assuming (because I asked and you never responded) that that was what you were annoyed about with me today.?. I'm trying to stick to the budget this month, but it's very difficult with christmas and my check being short and not having cash (because I suck at keeping track of my spending otherwise). But I'm trying. I know you're discouraged but please give me a chance....starting in Jan. it will be much easier and I will be strict and abide by the budget plan we've decided upon. But that doesn't mean that I'm going to go on a spending spree this month either (unneccessarily). Ok? so we should talk about this because I can change, I can save, and I'm excited about the budget too.
I think this is the communication issue rearing its head again. I know you say you’re committed to a budget, but everything you say is about how certain expenses are outside the budget. When you say one thing and do another, it’s hard to give what you say any weight. I know I can be guilty of the same thing – I’m sure you feel sometimes like you are talking to a whole other person than you had the initial discussions with.
#2 We definitely need to sit down and discuss; work together on how we are going to enforce certain rules that Sophia needs to learn to follow and just in general how we are going to handle situations involving her and later Kai just so we're both on the same page. .....and I don't mean that I'm going to make the rules, I mean that we both share our ideas and come to some sort of agreement on them, so Sophia isn't guessing. Because she's def. at the age where she's trying to see what she can get away with and with whom she can get away with certain things, which if we don't figure this out now she will try and turn us against each other. Ok, so realistically I know all these things are situational....but I think getting her on more of a set routine without bending the rules would help and not talking about things in front of her may be a good place to start. So, what do you think??
Boundaries are important. And again, it goes back to the communication issue. I don’t really see how we can be successful at any of this if you can’t address me directly, and I can’t address you, even by email.
Of course we're hardly alone without the kids but anyway maybe after they go to sleep.... (just so you know, I'm not putting blame on you, I'm speaking in terms of both of us, I'm just as guilty of all of these things). It's just I know neither one of us want our kids to grow up as spoiled, snobby kids.
I think that if we can really find a way to talk about this – where I’m really communicating with you, and you with me, I think it will sort itself out.
I think at the moment these are the most pressing issues for me, feel free to add to the list though I love you, and I love our family. So, sorry about today (or yesterday)....
Just so you know, I have no reason to question your commitment to the relationship. It’s just a communication barrier – sometimes I think that even with all the additional ways to communicate that modern technology creates, there’s even more potential for things like emails to go awry.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Letter to the McCullough principal
I wrote the following letter to the McCullough principal. Unsurprisingly, it had no impact. Nevertheless, it's probably worth republishing here.
"I have been advised that Michelle Foldetta has chosen to resign as the Highland Girls director after the administration chose not to back her in a disciplinary incident involving a student. I cannot help but think that if you choose this path, abrogating both the disciplinary process and individual responsibility, and accept the resignation of Ms. Foldetta, McCullough will be less for it. Here’s why:
I have a shirt hanging in my closet. It’s a work shirt that I had embroidered to say “Highland Girl Dad.” Although I ostensibly had it made to support the daughter at her events when she was a Highland Girl, I always liked the shirt because it spoke of something larger, and I really felt a connection to the program.
Back then, I joked in the family’s Christmas letter about the girls being lectured by Ms. Foldetta as they stretched, on not hugging boys in the hall, on which was the proper fork to use in what situation etc. I mused that perhaps the practice was widespread, that there would be an entire generation of Jr. High school athletes who all learned proper etiquette as they stretched, and could always remember the correct fork. A friend of the daughter who ran track, upon reading that passage in the letter, looked up and said “No, not so much.” Too bad for the track team.
If you have watched the Highland Girls, and by extension the Highsteppers, you know that the style of dance they pursue is exacting, rigorous, and precise. It emphasizes unity and strength over flash. It is old-school. The style is born of tradition, but also embodied in the directors of both squads. To have these high expectations and standards of behavior during such a chaotic time of life as Jr. High school was absolutely golden for the daughter. She will always be, in some sense, a Highland Girl, and that is a direct reflection of the work of Ms. Foldetta.
This is the bottom line for me: the only teachers, coaches, and mentors who ever contributed to my development in any area were the ones who expected something from me, and held me to a standard. Not everybody chooses to exercise the discretion they are given in order to fulfill a vision of what others can be. I remember the professor who called me out for a lack of intellectual rigor and care far more than the many who told me I was doing great, mainly because he was invested enough in my development as a graduate student to do so.
We seem to live in an era in which uniqueness and specialness is valued less and less. Highland Girls, under the direction of Ms. Foldetta, is one of the things that makes McCullough special. I’m sure that you will always have a drill team of one sort or another, whoever the director may be. Without Ms. Foldetta, however, the Highland Girls will not have the potential to make such an impact on the girls’ lives at such a crucial time."
"I have been advised that Michelle Foldetta has chosen to resign as the Highland Girls director after the administration chose not to back her in a disciplinary incident involving a student. I cannot help but think that if you choose this path, abrogating both the disciplinary process and individual responsibility, and accept the resignation of Ms. Foldetta, McCullough will be less for it. Here’s why:
I have a shirt hanging in my closet. It’s a work shirt that I had embroidered to say “Highland Girl Dad.” Although I ostensibly had it made to support the daughter at her events when she was a Highland Girl, I always liked the shirt because it spoke of something larger, and I really felt a connection to the program.
Back then, I joked in the family’s Christmas letter about the girls being lectured by Ms. Foldetta as they stretched, on not hugging boys in the hall, on which was the proper fork to use in what situation etc. I mused that perhaps the practice was widespread, that there would be an entire generation of Jr. High school athletes who all learned proper etiquette as they stretched, and could always remember the correct fork. A friend of the daughter who ran track, upon reading that passage in the letter, looked up and said “No, not so much.” Too bad for the track team.
If you have watched the Highland Girls, and by extension the Highsteppers, you know that the style of dance they pursue is exacting, rigorous, and precise. It emphasizes unity and strength over flash. It is old-school. The style is born of tradition, but also embodied in the directors of both squads. To have these high expectations and standards of behavior during such a chaotic time of life as Jr. High school was absolutely golden for the daughter. She will always be, in some sense, a Highland Girl, and that is a direct reflection of the work of Ms. Foldetta.
This is the bottom line for me: the only teachers, coaches, and mentors who ever contributed to my development in any area were the ones who expected something from me, and held me to a standard. Not everybody chooses to exercise the discretion they are given in order to fulfill a vision of what others can be. I remember the professor who called me out for a lack of intellectual rigor and care far more than the many who told me I was doing great, mainly because he was invested enough in my development as a graduate student to do so.
We seem to live in an era in which uniqueness and specialness is valued less and less. Highland Girls, under the direction of Ms. Foldetta, is one of the things that makes McCullough special. I’m sure that you will always have a drill team of one sort or another, whoever the director may be. Without Ms. Foldetta, however, the Highland Girls will not have the potential to make such an impact on the girls’ lives at such a crucial time."
Monday, August 30, 2010
R.I.P. Peter Lenz
I need to preface this by saying that I did not see the actual collision. I should also say that eyewitness accounts are a strange thing, and mine may differ a bit from some news accounts – that doesn’t speak to the truth or falsity of anything, just they’re different. The truth is usually somewhere in between.
I was on the asphalt behind the South Vista Section 5 grandstand, helping my buddy look for something he’d let slip through the grandstands. It was a few minutes before the start of one of the support races, the Moriwaki Honda spec series – it was the warm-up lap, so I had a couple of minutes before the green flag dropped.
Collective crowd reactions are always powerful – when a few hundred, or a thousand people all do something at once, it commands attention. So when an entire grandstand of people goes “WHOA!” you look up. The screen across the track didn’t show anything, so I showed my ticket and climbed the couple of stairs to the landing in front of the bleachers.
There were two bikes down on track, and two riders had gone down. One was up and walking away, the other lying slightly crumpled against the curbing that runs down the track, 50 yards beyond the turn four exit.
He’s not moving.
First, some of the track personnel arrived, carrying a sling stretcher and a grey medical box. They kneeled, starting to check him out. An older couple who I think were the grandparents of the eventual second place finisher asked me,
“Is this real or are they just practicing?”
“It’s for real,” I replied. “Two riders collided.”
He’s still not moving.
By then, the second rider had been led away and the bikes had been pushed off. More track personnel arrived, carrying a backboard. Then one of those Cushman’s with the ATV wheels showed up with a gurney in the back. They unloaded the gurney. One of the medical personnel had trouble getting her end to lock up; a strap had caught one of the wheels.
He’s still not moving.
They lift him on the gurney. Somewhere in between the back board and the gurney, they had put an ambu bag on him and started chest compressions. The announcer is still spouting inanities about how they’ll get started soon, wonders aloud why Lenz hasn’t returned to the grid. I just wanted him to shut up.
F&^k.
The ambulance arrives and they load him in, still doing CPR. I know that the hospital is only a couple of minutes away. The whole episode seems like an eternity, although it was probably less than 10 minutes.
The race does start, and the 12-16 year olds do some great racing. Some are truly fast – I expect I’ll see the kid who won in the top ranks of the sport some day. I keep checking my phone to see if there’s any news. Eventually, the Indianapolis Star is the first to report that he had died.
F&^k.
The thing is, we always expect them to get up. Even when they’re truly injured, we expect a weak thumbs-up as they’re being loaded on the gurney, and the crowd cheers.
Except Peter Lenz never got up.
Now the tough part…
I imagine there’s going to be a lot said about how he should have never been out there, that the very idea of a 12-16 year age bracket in motor racing is ludicrous. One thing, though – if someone is going to be at the top levels of motorsport in their twenties, when their reflexes and physical conditioning are at their peak, that’s when they have to be on track in some sort of lower-tier series.
Practical considerations aside, I happened to see a panel of four or five of the kids discussing their life as racers in the vendor area on Saturday. Lenz may have been among them, I don’t know. They responded to the announcer’s questions of whether it was difficult to keep up with their chores and other responsibilities. I remember one responding that they were having a house built, so they had been in their motorhome and race trailer for the last for months, so it was pretty easy to keep it tidy. The kids all seemed bright and engaging, and it was apparent that they were racers. To the core. Some things you do because you have to. Some things you do because you have some ability to do so. And some things you do because you absolutely love to, and would rather be doing nothing else. Each of these kids absolutely exuded that.
I’m not really sure there’s a point to this. I guess the best I can say is that if you happen to give any thought to Ayrton Senna, or Dale Earnhardt, or Jeremy Lusk, spare a thought for Peter Lenz too – he was another racer who was cut down before he could really show the world what he had.
I was on the asphalt behind the South Vista Section 5 grandstand, helping my buddy look for something he’d let slip through the grandstands. It was a few minutes before the start of one of the support races, the Moriwaki Honda spec series – it was the warm-up lap, so I had a couple of minutes before the green flag dropped.
Collective crowd reactions are always powerful – when a few hundred, or a thousand people all do something at once, it commands attention. So when an entire grandstand of people goes “WHOA!” you look up. The screen across the track didn’t show anything, so I showed my ticket and climbed the couple of stairs to the landing in front of the bleachers.
There were two bikes down on track, and two riders had gone down. One was up and walking away, the other lying slightly crumpled against the curbing that runs down the track, 50 yards beyond the turn four exit.
He’s not moving.
First, some of the track personnel arrived, carrying a sling stretcher and a grey medical box. They kneeled, starting to check him out. An older couple who I think were the grandparents of the eventual second place finisher asked me,
“Is this real or are they just practicing?”
“It’s for real,” I replied. “Two riders collided.”
He’s still not moving.
By then, the second rider had been led away and the bikes had been pushed off. More track personnel arrived, carrying a backboard. Then one of those Cushman’s with the ATV wheels showed up with a gurney in the back. They unloaded the gurney. One of the medical personnel had trouble getting her end to lock up; a strap had caught one of the wheels.
He’s still not moving.
They lift him on the gurney. Somewhere in between the back board and the gurney, they had put an ambu bag on him and started chest compressions. The announcer is still spouting inanities about how they’ll get started soon, wonders aloud why Lenz hasn’t returned to the grid. I just wanted him to shut up.
F&^k.
The ambulance arrives and they load him in, still doing CPR. I know that the hospital is only a couple of minutes away. The whole episode seems like an eternity, although it was probably less than 10 minutes.
The race does start, and the 12-16 year olds do some great racing. Some are truly fast – I expect I’ll see the kid who won in the top ranks of the sport some day. I keep checking my phone to see if there’s any news. Eventually, the Indianapolis Star is the first to report that he had died.
F&^k.
The thing is, we always expect them to get up. Even when they’re truly injured, we expect a weak thumbs-up as they’re being loaded on the gurney, and the crowd cheers.
Except Peter Lenz never got up.
Now the tough part…
I imagine there’s going to be a lot said about how he should have never been out there, that the very idea of a 12-16 year age bracket in motor racing is ludicrous. One thing, though – if someone is going to be at the top levels of motorsport in their twenties, when their reflexes and physical conditioning are at their peak, that’s when they have to be on track in some sort of lower-tier series.
Practical considerations aside, I happened to see a panel of four or five of the kids discussing their life as racers in the vendor area on Saturday. Lenz may have been among them, I don’t know. They responded to the announcer’s questions of whether it was difficult to keep up with their chores and other responsibilities. I remember one responding that they were having a house built, so they had been in their motorhome and race trailer for the last for months, so it was pretty easy to keep it tidy. The kids all seemed bright and engaging, and it was apparent that they were racers. To the core. Some things you do because you have to. Some things you do because you have some ability to do so. And some things you do because you absolutely love to, and would rather be doing nothing else. Each of these kids absolutely exuded that.
I’m not really sure there’s a point to this. I guess the best I can say is that if you happen to give any thought to Ayrton Senna, or Dale Earnhardt, or Jeremy Lusk, spare a thought for Peter Lenz too – he was another racer who was cut down before he could really show the world what he had.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
The difference between boys and girls Part IV.
So I’m on my way to work and the phone rings – Kill Hannah – Lips Like Morphine – must be Jan. The tone of the voice on the other end of the line is accusing. Uh-oh.
“There’s a dead deer in the flowerbed.” Like I put it there or something. “You must have seen it when you left.”
“Ummm…guess I missed it.”
So the proper authorities were notified, the deer was disposed of, we kind of tried not to mention it in front of the boy and the daughter and actually succeeded for a few days. Then, of course, we mentioned it in passing.
The daughter was horrified, of course.
“A deer? Dead? What happened?”
The boy, his attention momentarily captured, looked up briefly from his book on the couch.
“Did Whiskers or Cory get it?”
“There’s a dead deer in the flowerbed.” Like I put it there or something. “You must have seen it when you left.”
“Ummm…guess I missed it.”
So the proper authorities were notified, the deer was disposed of, we kind of tried not to mention it in front of the boy and the daughter and actually succeeded for a few days. Then, of course, we mentioned it in passing.
The daughter was horrified, of course.
“A deer? Dead? What happened?”
The boy, his attention momentarily captured, looked up briefly from his book on the couch.
“Did Whiskers or Cory get it?”
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